Betsy Taylor was no more immune to the silly season than she was to the charms of handsome, much younger men. Unfortunately, when you got to the ripe old age of eighty-something but reliving your swinging sixties, you often found the years of festive joy and delicious surprises were behind you.

She sat at her kitchen table with her third cup of coffee. One to wake up, two to get the old bones moving, and the third to give her enough oomph to get through the rest of the day. That was her motto anyway, and pfffft to those doomsayer articles that said caffeine was bad for your health. Or the health nuts who would rather eat sugar-free cardboard than an unbeatable Betsy Taylor Christmas cake. She’d spent the last few days baking up a storm, and her beautiful glazed fruit cakes were stacked in colorful festively themed containers ready to be delivered.

The doorbell rang, and Betsy eased to her feet. Her mouth twisted as she walked toward the front door, and the row of Christmas cards displayed on her sideboard snagged her eye. Cards wishing dear Aunt Betsy a lovely Christmas, but sorry, we’re spending the holidays with the in-laws this year. Or the e-card she’d gotten on the computer from her great-niece in Dunedin that when she clicked the link played a tinny-sounding carol with dancing Santas. Alice had a big work project to complete over Christmas; she’d try to come visit early next year.

Family was meant to have your back, as the young people would say. Apparently, there was an age limit on that.

She opened the door to Piper and Ryan Westlake, though Betsy, along with every other local, called the oldest Westlake boy ‘West.’ West, who’d grown from a gangly teenager into a fine man, held their sweet little girl, Michaela, in his arms.

“Westlake delivery service reporting for duty,” Piper said. “And not just a pickup either.” She held out her hand and a little gift bag dangled from her fingers. “We found this on your doorstep.”

Betsy eyed the reindeer-printed gift bag with suspicion. Oh, heaven’s above. Surely not another one?

“Probably one of my ladies left it,” she said, snatching the bag from Piper’s fingers. She tugged on the cellophane sticking out from the top, and out popped a ribbon-tied bundle of chocolate-coated almonds. Her favorite—even if she did have a not-so-nice habit of sucking off the chocolate and spitting the nut into one of her strategically hidden handkerchiefs.

Michaela squealed and wriggled her chubby legs until her dad lowered her to the ground. The little girl toddled toward Betsy’s feet and crouched down on her haunches, rising a moment later with a beatific smile on her face.

“Petty,” she said, holding out a finger for Betsy to examine.

On that finger was a shiny red sequin-y thing. A heart-shaped sequin-y thing. Betsy’s gaze slid to the doorstep and the shower of heart shapes scattered over it, while Michaela once again bent to press her sticky little fingers on the confetti.

“Kinda a romantic choice of gift wrapping from one of your ladies,” West said. “Sure you haven’t got a secret admirer, Mrs. T?”

Secret admirer? The heat climbing up Betsy’s face threatened to set her curls on fire. This was becoming preposterous.

For the past nine days she’d discovered gift bags left on her front porch. She’d yet to spot the culprit, because whoever it was was as sneaky as all get-out. The bags never arrived at the same time of day—so she was unable to consistently spy on her doorstep to catch someone in the act—and since her hearing wasn’t the best, neither had she heard footsteps on her porch.

And the gifts, oh goodness. Little trinkets and bits ’n bobs that her mystery secret Santa knew she’d enjoy. Like a delicate china teacup with a rose pattern, to replace the one that’d been broken at a birthday lunch for a group of mature Stewart Islanders who met for card games and gossip twice a month. A book on Bangladesh, which took her on a lovely nostalgic journey back to her nursing days. Her favorite shade of lipstick which had to be ordered online since Russell’s didn’t stock it. A New Zealand firefighters calendar with handsome bare-chested hunks—that one had made her double over and giggle madly like a schoolgirl.

The best defense being a good offense, she turned up her nose and said, “What a load of nonsense. I’m too old to have a secret admirer.”

West exchanged glances with Piper and they grinned at each other.

“If I were forty years older and my wife wouldn’t murder me in my sleep, I’d do you, Mrs. T.”

“You’d be so lucky, boy.” She chuckled and gestured him and Piper inside. “Come on in, then. The cakes are in the kitchen, and Michaela, honey, get Mummy to take you into the front room. There’s a present for you under the tree.”

Piper took her daughter’s hand and led her down the hallway. West followed, and Betsy had a good mind to swat him on his behind with her walking stick to teach him a lesson, but instead she went after him.

“You two wouldn’t happen to know who this bag is from, would you?” she asked as West crossed to the kitchen counter and picked up two shopping bags of containers.

“Not a clue,” he said.

Smooth as silk the lad was. She tapped her way over to the counter to stand by his side, briefly considering whether goosing him would scare the truth out of him. She did love it when these big, strong, handsome young men dissolved into stuttering, discombobulated panic at her outrageous flirting. Nothing was more fun than watching them squirm, except, perhaps, watching them fall in love and become stuttering, discombobulated fools over their women.

She tapped her cane dangerously close to his toes. “If you know who this man—I mean—who this person is, you’d better spill the beans. Don’t you lie to me, Ryan Westlake.”

“I wouldn’t dare risk your wrath, Mrs. T.” He manhandled the third bag from the counter, dodged around her, and escaped toward the door. He turned back with a wink. “Though payback’s a bitch, isn’t it?”

Hrrrumph. While she couldn’t take direct credit for West reuniting with the love of his life, there were many in Oban she could, and did, congratulate herself on matchmaking. Though the one person she’d never even considered matchmaking was herself. Love was for the young generation, not for a stubborn old gal like her.

Or so she kept telling herself at every wedding, every funeral, every community get-together, and at every Christmas spent with a single stocking hung from the mantelpiece.